Having visited the Domicile on his exploratory trip to Nachton, Marcallas strode through the doors with a purposeful air. He knew exactly where he was going, as he headed through, held up his hand for the recognition, and said firmly, "Reception desk."
The doors opened again, and there it was, functional, sterile...he avoided the word Spartan scrupulously. He'd take the Guard of Night over any equivalent Spartans any day of the...
With a growl, he reached into his pocket and took out a note addressed to Carol. Placing it on the desk, he turned and walked quickly away, back to the elevator and out. He had no fear of anyone reading the message. Anyone that would read Carol's messages was either too stupid to live - and therefore deserved whatever reception he gave them if they showed up - or was Simon, or possibly - Ellis? And those two could read the note all they liked, particularly because of the content.
He left the Domicile, and strode into the darkness, heading for the Abby for the next item of business, a neatly written note on white paper, folded and sealed on the reception desk behind him. He knew it would reach the appropriate hands.
As discussed in February, I have moved to Nachton. While I will be pursuing some business opportunities of my own, I would like to discuss some freelance work for the Clan as well. For now, I'm staying at the Crowne; I'll be haunting the Abby while I choose a personal residence and survey current affairs.
-Marcallas
(Marc out!)
Settling In
His orderly mind checked off the items on his list as thoroughly as he checked his armor for fit and fastness, even as he moved through his suite, preparing for the evening.
Hotel, check. His suite was large and spacious. He had already moved the furniture, taking careful note of the original placement of each piece. The bedroom was now an empty place, walls lined with the couch, square dinner table, two chairs, and coffee table that once graced the sitting room. It would do for practice and exercise while he was awake, and conscious enough to know if the curtains were open or closed. The sitting room, a windowless room with two entries - through the bedroom, or from the hallway outside - now held the bed. A safer place to sleep than the room that could be a deathtrap from freak accidents and enemies' familiars alike.
Luggage, check. His luggage had been delivered by the courier service he'd hired weeks ago. It was difficult enough to bring certain things on planes these days; impossible to bring the few priceless items he still cherished from centuries ago. These were carefully unpacked, inspected, cared for, and put away.
Dinner, check. The courier service was hired discreetly, and the specific courier chosen was comely enough. He'd fed, disguising it as a biting fetish, and knowing that he'd drained enough to make her light-headed, but not enough to make her truly ill. A snack, really, added to the euphoria of coupling and the touches he knew would cloud her mind. Tomorrow she'd have the mother of all hickies, but she'd also have an evening to tell the girls about back at the office. He, meanwhile, was operating at peak performance, fueled and clean and ready to go.
He buttoned up the final button of his black dress shirt, tied his black tie, and slipped into his custom-made Armani suit. Not the standard Armani, of course - this was Vincenzo Armani, several generations back from today's well-known designer, and his tailor for many years. The small Italian managed to couple the latest fashions with a need to hide (and quickly reach) heavy-duty firepower at will, and to do it all with a style and grace that far surpassed his grandson (however many times over).
He looked down, his personal tribute to the Man in Black hanging correctly, no sign of any telltale bulges. He left his room hung with a Do Not Disturb sign and headed swiftly to the Domicile. His first business would be with Simon.
Marc
16 years ago